Three Hail Mary's
by Nevermore
Summary: Early- to mid-season 3 action. Max sends Alec on an important errand outside Terminal City, and he ends up getting involved in far more than he expects. (Complete.)
1. Chapter 1

James Cameron and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned (or any other) copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons (either real or fictional) is unintended.

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Author's Note: This is a stand-alone story that depicts some of the things Alec might be doing while the transgenics are under siege in Terminal City. While anyone could read this story and understand what's going on, the piece is actually intended to complement my story _Seasons Change_. For those that are reading that story, the events herein occur simultaneously with the events in Chapters 8 and 9. The intent in making this its own stand-alone story rather than another chapter of _Seasons Change_ is in developing more of a Season 3 atmosphere by expanding the storyline somewhat. I hope everyone likes this…

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Three Hail Mary's

by

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Nevermore

I'm still completely jacked up on adrenaline by the time I bring my bike to a screeching halt three blocks away from the Sector Five checkpoint. Of course, it's hard to stop the one obvious question that's been bouncing around inside my head for the past twenty minutes – _Why in the world did you leave Max on her own, Alec?_ I guess the reason the question won't go away is because I have no idea how to answer it. It seems pretty lame to say I left her behind just because she told me to. After all, it's not like I've been one to listen to anybody, and especially not Max. So, of course, what do I do? I wait until a failed assassination attempt to start listening, and as my first obeyed order I select her command to leave her on her own. _Do you **want** Max to get killed?_ I ask myself. A shake of the head chases that silly thought away. Of course I don't want her dead. All I want right now is a scotch on the rocks. _Later, Alec_, I tell myself. There's a job to do, first.

The X5's all have a serious flaw in their design – the inability to produce tryptophan. Our cache back at Terminal City is running low, so here I am, sent hither and yon to dig up some more. I wonder if I should be offended that when it comes time to find large stores of drugs (or chemical supplements, depending on your definition), Max chooses me for the job. This is probably because of that little incident dealing steroids way back when… I can't believe she still holds that against me.

So whether or not she was trying to tell me something by sending me on this 'mission,' I'm here all the same, outside one of Seattle's many Axis Chemical warehouses. This particular one caters to the pharmaceutical companies that relocated just after the Pulse. It almost seems fitting that I would liberate chemicals meant for these particular companies. After all, we transgenics happen to have taken over these same companies' abandoned installations in Terminal City. What's one more seized asset, anyway?

The warehouse is so generic in its design it amazes me. It's too bad I was raised in Manticore, really. I mean, think about it – once upon a time, some architect somewhere was probably hired to design 'the ultimate warehouse.' What he came up with was a cookie-cutter design that amounted to four steel walls surrounding a massive storage area. And just for good measure, this guy added in a few loading docks, grimy windows (I would swear the windows on Seattle's warehouses are _all_ delivered in that same, oil and dirt-smudged condition), and a skylight that provides easy access for any cut-rate thief. I could have designed that. Seriously. Instead I get trained to become a professional soldier. Of course, if there was really any justice in the world I would have been a rock star. Yep, that would have been the life for me… but instead I'm stuck singing in the shower. That's not to say my cover of 'Big Girls Don't Cry' isn't absolutely killer, all the same, but I don't see it getting me the chance to headline a big-name international tour anytime soon.

So knowing my job, I proceed to the aforementioned easy-access skylight and see a dark room below. Getting in is an absolute piece of cake. The hard part is walking through the damned warehouse, trying to find what I'm looking for. This is the part I really hate about being a thief. You watch a movie about something like this, and they only show you the cool parts. Thief gets in, gets the loot, and gets out. They never show thief wandering aimlessly around a huge warehouse, trying to find an obscure drug needed to keep said thief's brain from misfiring and sending him into seizures. You know why they never show crap like that in the movies? It's boring. In fact, it's so boring that I'm almost relieved when I hear the soft, padded footsteps of a dog. Of course, running into a Rottweiler or German Shepherd isn't exactly gonna be fun, but I'm certain it'll be more diverting than what I'm already doing. Then again, I've never been one for making things too easy for the guards, whether they be human or canine, so I jump up onto a large pallet of compressed nitrous oxide canisters.

The dog definitely has my scent, but I'd love to see him track me down as I leap from one pallet to the next, making it all the way across the warehouse without making even enough noise for that damned mutt to hear me.

"What is it, boy?" a voice calls out from the darkness. Just what I need – a guard. Hasn't he looked at the clock? It's ten-thirty at night, likely just before a shift change… any night watchman worth his salt should be doing the night's paperwork in front of a small black and white TV blaring highlights on ESPN. But no, I get the one damn overachiever in all Seattle. I'm seriously contemplating just giving up on this place and swinging by at MediQuik Pharmaceuticals' warehouse when the guard walks cautiously into view. He looks strangely familiar to me. He's about six feet tall, sorta athletic-looking but not really muscular. He's in his late thirties, maybe early forties, and… "Damn!" I scream out as the guard dog tackles me from behind, knocking me right off the pallet I had been hiding on and riding my body all the way down to the concrete floor eight feet below. I don't know what's worse, the pain in my chest, or the strange, shit-eating grin I can swear that dog is directing at me as he trots slowly over to the guard, looking none the worse for wear. And speaking of that guard, he's now gazing at me down the barrel of a .357 Magnum. Serious hardware for a man that should be growing fat on some kind of police pension as he lives out his later years as a night watchman. I notice a slight lack of balance in his stance – he's favoring his right leg. If I can just get my feet under me enough… 

"Don't even think about it," he snarls as he locks onto my gaze. It's then that I notice the huge scar on the right side of his face. Looks like he was burned pretty bad.

"I'm not thinking about anything," I lie, still trying to poise my left foot underneath my body just enough to lunge at the guy.

"You move that foot another inch and I'm putting you down for good," he threatens. I can hardly believe that this guy is so competent. Seriously, am I cursed, or what? This is like going down to the bar and betting a hundred bucks on a game of pool, just to find out my opponent is some kind of world champion. What are the odds of running into a guard like this working a shift in Seattle?

"You here looking for drugs?" he asks, still watching me like a hawk. I look at the dog, and I can still swear he's amused as a pig in shit. In fact, I can almost swear he's laughing at me. "Are… you… here… for… drugs," the guard repeats slowly. He probably figures I'm some kind of strung-out junkie looking for my next score.

"I'm not here for drugs," I tell him calmly, hoping he'll sense some of the sincerity in my voice. Then again, I realize, I guess I really am here for drugs. Just not the way he thinks.

"So why you here?" he asks menacingly. "This warehouse a stop on some kind of tour?"

"Not exactly," I answer glibly. If I can just keep him talking, keep him distracted, maybe I can --

"What did I tell you about that foot?" he asks me, obviously having seen me resume my attempt at gaining some kind of mobility. "So tell me – why you here?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I mutter.

"Oh really?" he asks. "Why don't you try me."

I briefly consider telling him this is all part of some kind of fraternity initiation thing, but I really don't think he'd believe me. Of course, like I already told him, he's not gonna believe the truth, either. Then again, I guess there's no harm in telling him. "I'm one of those transgenics," I say, figuring that's either gonna surprise him enough to give me some kind of opening, or incite him enough to shoot me on the spot. Either way, I'll probably get the chance to move a little. And I really have to move, too. My right foot is starting to fall asleep, and I really hate the thought of getting pins and needles once circulation returns.

"Really?" the guy asks, not even batting an eyelash at that little tidbit. I can't believe he didn't even seem to break his concentration. "I've seen you guys on the TV."

"I bet."

"Get up," he orders as he takes a few cautious steps back. I think I could probably reach him before he could get a well-aimed shot off at me, but then again, I don't know that I want to risk it. Getting shot by a .357 would suck, and from what I've seen so far, I'm willing to bet this guy's one shot would be a good one.

"Fine," I grumble, standing hesitantly to my feet, my hands spread out at my sides as I try to appear as non-threatening as possible.

"Don't try anything stupid and everything should be just fine," he says reassuringly. He looks me over while I stand there. "Turn around," he instructs. I do as I'm told, turning my back on him. As soon as I do so, I close my eyes and concentrate on my sense of hearing. One of the earliest things I learned is that sight is overrated. I don't need to see most targets to be able to defend myself properly, especially in an enclosed area like this.

"You wouldn't shoot a guy in the back, would ya?" I ask, though I have to wonder why I say anything. It's not like I'm a fan of joking around in the face of death, but it seems I always do so just the same.

"Just wanted to see the barcode," the guy mutters. "Wanted to make sure you're on the level."

"You think I'd lie about something like that?" The very thought is absurd to me. "Seems everyone in the city is gunning for us… I'm not exactly big on letting people know what I actually am."

"So why did you tell me?"

"I was hoping to catch you off-guard," I admit. Doesn't seem much point in lying at all here. The guy has obviously been in the military – I can smell it on him. He's been in worse situations like this, and I can't believe I'd throw him too much he can't handle, especially from fifteen feet away with my back turned toward him.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he says sarcastically. You know, if he wasn't the guard at a warehouse I was robbing, I think I could actually like this guy. "I presume you're here to steal some medical supplies for your people."

"Not exactly," I tell him. "I'm here for tryptophan."

"Never heard of it," the guy says. "Is that something we have?"

"I was hoping. If you just let me go, I'll be out of your hair in seconds. I'll get what I need somewhere else." Seems like a reasonable enough suggestion. "After all, if you actually try to hold me here, it'll mean more paperwork. I'd have to guess your night's probably almost over."

"In about half an hour," he admits. "No, I'm not gonna try to turn you over to the cops, kid. You were raised to be a soldier, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I served, too," he says, confirming my suspicions, "and I believe in helping out other grunts when they need it, regardless of whether they enlisted or were genetically engineered to serve. I was a SEAL, you know… Served eight years, came out and joined the Secret Service for a bit, and then went into private security."

"Oh," I mutter, surprised that someone with his credentials ended up doing private security at a second-rate pharmaceutical warehouse. I don't question it, though. I'm still too shocked at the fact that this guy thought everything through enough to conclude that me and mine are fellow soldiers. Most people, soldiers or not, don't seem to get past the 'genetic freak' label the powers that be have stuck on us.

"Follow me," he says. "We have at least twenty minutes before Joey shows up to take over for me. We'll see if we can find some of that cheerafan for ya."

"Tryptophan," I correct as the dog – it looks like a German Shepherd-Siberian Husky mix – falls into stride behind me.

"Whatever," he responds with a grunt. He turns and leads me back to the office, and I'm torn as to whether I should just take the opportunity to run, or whether I should try to overpower him while his back is turned. It would serve him right for being so carelessly trusting. Then again, he's been pretty cool so far. No reason to screw a guy over just because his dog is an asshead.

We go into the office and he pulls up the warehouse inventory on the computer. "Look it up," he says, gesturing for me to sit down at the keyboard.

"You serious?" I ask. I can't believe he's actually gonna let me search the inventory on my own.

"I don't even know how to pronounce whatever it is you're looking for," he tells me, "to say nothing of spelling it. Just be fast."

"No problem," I assure him. I set to work right away, and I notice that he's hovering over my right shoulder, making sure I restrict my search at least a little bit. It's actually comforting to know the guy isn't stupid enough to trust me too much. "So what's your name?" I ask casually, wondering why I even care what the guy's name is. It's almost like a part of my mind – the part that always has me say sarcastic stuff to Max, by the way – craves some kind of normality in this situation. So I ignore the .357 I know is pointed at my back as I type, and I make chitchat.

"My name's Ryan," the guard says. "And you?"

"Alec."

"So I guess you're one of the ones that looks human," he comments absently. "So what does the barcode mean, anyway? All they ever say on the news is that all you guys have them. They never said why."

"The number is who I am," I tell him. "I call myself Alec because one of the others gave me that name. Before that, the number on the back of my neck was my designation. I was just that – a number."

"That sucks," the guy replies.

"Not really," I counter. "So what if I was known by a number? It's just part of the culture I was raised in. You served – you should understand. Different cultures have different names, like the difference between Michael, Mikhail, Miguel, and Michele. Instead of a random set of numbers grouped together to create a given sound, I was designated by a decidedly non-random sequence of numbers."

"Oh," he says, his tone making it quite obvious that he's not too interested in the conversation.

"So why you working here, anyway?" I ask as I find tryptophan in the directory.

"It helps pay the bills," he retorts. "The few I have, anyway."

"But you're a veteran with experience in the Secret Service," I point out. "You seriously can't find a better job than this?" If he can't do better than this, then Max and I should probably have a serious discussion about the transgenics' future. My fellow freaks are nice enough in their own way, but I don't really want to keep running into them every month when it comes time to sign for my unemployment check.

"I also have a screwed up leg," Ryan points out. "Figured you woulda noticed that much."

"Doesn't seem too bad."

"Hurts like a son of a bitch," he tells me. "I can't move quickly anymore, and if I'm on my feet for more than twenty, maybe thirty minutes, my entire right side starts to stiffen up and burn."

"And there's nothing doctors can do?"

"Sure, if I have an extra fifty grand lying around," he replies. "I have shrapnel all through the leg and a couple of pieces near the base of my spine. Surgery is the only option."

"What about the VA Hospital? I thought they were supposed to take care of things like this."

"Maybe back in the old days, but not anymore," he says. He looks me up and down when I turn to face him, and something in his expression seems pitifully condescending, as if he knows so much about the world and is kind of sad to see someone so innocent of the myriad ways in which he'll end up getting screwed. "The VA told me that since I was injured while in private employment, my boss should pay for the surgery."

"And what does your boss say?"

"Nothing," Ryan growled. "Poor bastard's dead."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and his family doesn't feel too keen about the idea of fixing me up since they think it's my fault they guy got whacked."

"How exactly is it your fault?" I'm actually quite good at filling in the blanks, but the computer was taking irritatingly long in calling up the product numbers of the tryptophan in the warehouse, so it seemed like I had a few more minutes to kill with some small talk.

"I was the bodyguard," Ryan says, confirming my suspicions. "His dad actually went out of his way to hire me, said stuff like, 'Nothing's too good for the Flemming family. Spare no expense,' and all that crap. Of course, once Robert Jr. was dead, it seemed like any payment at all was too good for the Flemming family. Cheap assholes…"

"Robert Flemming, Jr.?" I ask. I totally can't believe it when I hear the name. The universe sure has a sense of humor, and right now the joke is at my expense.

"You heard of him?" Ryan asks.

"Yeah, I heard of him." I wonder if I should also say I'm the one that blew the guy up, but I decide against that. I don't see how that would help matters. Yep, good old Manticore had me take out Robert Jr. because he had a taste for women, and the crazy idea that the more top-secret information he spread around the more exotic and in-the-know women would find him. Jackass should have seen me coming from a mile away. So yet again I'm faced with the consequences of my actions in service of my former masters. From a professional standpoint I can't say that catching a bodyguard in a blast is quite as bad as incinerating the love of my life, but it isn't exactly easy to simply chalk up Ryan's injuries as collateral damage.

I guess you can say that Max has become my own personal Jimminy Cricket, because I can imagine her standing here right now, shaking her head in disappointment at yet another bad thing I've done. _And what'll you do to try to make up for this?_ I can imagine her asking me. I can also imagine myself standing there like an idiot, trying to figure some way to undo the damage I've done.

"So that's it, eh?" Ryan asks, looking at the computer screen. I only nod in response. "So why don't you follow me on out there?" he suggests. "I'll show you where it is and you make a quick getaway. Things disappear every now and then, and I can't imagine anyone'll be too broken up about some of that stuff missing. Can't say I ever heard of it having any kind of street value."

"Only to us," I muttered, though I don't even know if he heard me.

"Just make sure Joey don't see ya," he tells me. "And stay low, Alec. You seem like a nice enough guy."

_If only you knew the truth,_ I think miserably. He shows me where the tryptophan is, and I load up and sneak back out through the skylight. I sit around on the roof for a few moments, wondering whether there's such a thing as coincidence. I remember Lydecker telling us that there's no such thing as luck, that there are no coincidences. If that's true, then there must be some kind of purpose to me meeting Ryan. And the purpose is obvious – I have to make amends for what I did to him. I have to perform some kind of penance.

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To be continued…………………………


	2. Chapter 2

James Cameron and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned (or any other) copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons (either real or fictional) is unintended.

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            By the time I figure out which of the abandoned apartments in the building belongs to Ryan, he's already getting settled in for some serious unwinding time from work.  He's got a beer in his hand as he leans back on a broken-down brown leather La-Z-Boy, its surface splattered with patches of duct and masking tape to cover various holes.  When he turns on the TV, I get a chance to catch the highlights from the Mariners game… and oh, surprise, surprise – they lost.  Seems I'm out another hundred bucks.  Not since the 2002 Mets has there been such a talented team so completely incapable of winning.

            That's when I get the big surprise.  "Do not attempt to adjust your sets.  This is a Streaming Freedom video bulletin.  The cable hack will last exactly 60 seconds.  It cannot be traced, it cannot be stopped, and it is the only free voice left in the city."  Can't say I expected an Eyes Only report tonight.  After all, it's almost midnight.  Have big news for the graveyard shift, does he?

            "The struggle of the city's transgenics continues unabated," Eyes Only reports, failing to tell me anything I didn't already know.  "Eyes Only has uncovered information indicating that the transgenics currently under siege in Terminal City have offered, as a condition of their release, to have a sizable portion of their number enlist in the armed services.  This is, after all, the fate that was intended for them from the beginning.  So despite constant persecution and threats from their fellow citizens, the transgenics have volunteered to put their lives on the line to defend freedom and their countrymen.  Rather than react with gratitude, support, and understanding, however, Seattle's citizens continue to give in to fear and paranoia.  An explosion that occurred at Seattle's office of the CDC was immediately blamed on transgenic terrorists, and a small coterie of transgenics conducting a peaceful meeting with government representatives was ambushed, one of their number being gunned down.  How much more will it take to convince people to stop letting themselves be controlled by fear?  How much more will it take to allow the transgenics the peaceful existence they crave?"  Well, that report was a bit heavy on the editorial side for my tastes, but I guess no one's perfect.

            The news that Erin is apparently dead sucks, that's for sure.  I wonder if Logan has evidence of Max's clone's death, or if he's just reporting on something Max was bound to mention to him when she dropped by.  Does it really matter?  _Get with the game, Alec,_ I tell myself.  Seems I've been thinking that a lot lately.

            Once that spooky screen showing Logan's eyes fades away and Sports Center comes back on, I'm delighted to see that the Dodgers continued their winning streak.  Okay, now I'm only out fifty bucks for the night.  I'd love to stay and find out what happened in the Cubs-Senators game, but I really don't have the time.  Max expects me back at Terminal City by dawn, and my night has only just begun.

            Ryan lights a cigarette and takes a long drag off it as I continue to watch, trying to figure out what I can do for the guy.  Okay, so he was a big-time security guy with a promising future before I blew him up.  I guess I could get him some money or something, maybe get him out of this dilapidated hellhole in the middle of a crappy neighborhood.  And how do I know how crappy the neighborhood is, you ask?  Well, as fate would have it, Ryan lives only three doors down from my place.  So yeah, I could hook him up with some cash and get him the hell out of Dodge.

            _But is that really what you think he wants?_ a voice deep inside my head asks me.  Uncomfortable as it is, I'm forced to face the truth of the matter.  Of course that's not what Ryan would want.  A nice apartment in a safe neighborhood, a luxurious but sensible car, enough money in the bank to never have to worry about the little things…  Those are all nice, but not what a guy like him actually looks for in life.  It's a good thing, too, actually, since I have no idea in hell how I'd ever get enough cash to give him those things.  No, Ryan told me himself what he'd rally want – he wants the operations needed to make him whole again.  He's a smart, tough guy, and I don't think he'd have any problem with the idea of actually working his ass off to get where he wants to be.

            All Ryan probably wants is not to be a cripple.  I can do that for him.  Hell, I can certainly do that more easily than I could set him up for life.  Fifty grand, that's what he said it would cost.  _Think, Alec – think._  Sure, fifty grand…  If I could have just gone out one night and gotten my hands on fifty grand, I would have done it months ago.  It sure would have made my life more comfortable, and maybe I wouldn't have needed to actually hold a job.

            So I have five, maybe six hours to get my hands on fifty grand.  It's not like I don't know where there are places with that kind of money, but to go in to those places and actually steal it…  _You damn wussie,_ that irritating voice chastises me.  _If you needed the money to help out Max, or Joshua, or even Logan, you'd do whatever you had to to get it.  So don't start making excuses now._  You know, as irritating as that voice is – I wonder if it's my conscience – I have to admit that it's right.  I think maybe the worst thing about a conscience is realizing that it's right more often than my instincts are.  It's _so_ inconvenient.

            The only question that really remains is figuring out how to get the cash.  Like I said, I know of lots of people that have access to insane amounts of money at the drop of a hat, but knowing them doesn't necessarily mean it's a good idea to mess with them.  Unfortunately, though, the more I dwell on it, the more I have to admit that Sergei Dragonov is probably my best bet.  Sergei's got some serious Russian Mafia connections, and I happen to know him because he bankrolled some of my wagers back in my glory days as Monte Cora.  He should have at least two, maybe three hundred grand sitting in his safe.  And of course, for someone like me, breaking into a safe is easy enough.  The only problem is getting close enough to the safe to crack it.

            Last time I was at Sergei's he had nine armed guards.  Not that I was counting, keeping in mind the possibility that something like this might one day seem like a good idea.  Okay, maybe the thought crossed my mind, but I didn't take it seriously.  Well, not too seriously, anyway.

            Each of the guards carried an H&K MP-5.  It's not exactly the most modern hardware available, but it's a weapon that held sway for decades as _the_ premiere sub-machinegun.  And for good reason, too.  It's one hell of a weapon.  In fact, it's still my personal favorite.  So I have to break into a fairly well-guarded warehouse owned by the Russian Mafia, slipping undetected past the sentries, alarm system, and dogs (did I mention that Sergei has a thing for Dobermans?), break into a safe without anyone noticing, and make off with at least fifty grand before anyone can identify me. I _so_ can't do this alone.

            But who can I ask?  It isn't exactly like I've endeared myself to many people since I left Manticore; and that's not to say I endeared myself to many even before I left.  Let's face it, I'm not exactly the most endearing person in the world.  Of course, endearing people aren't the sort that try to rip off the Russian mob so they can pay for surgery to treat injuries sustained by a bodyguard they inadvertently blew up years earlier while assassinating a prominent businessman.  You know, thinking of it that way makes me realize exactly who I should call to help out on this little job.  Of course, his help won't be cheap, but if I promise to let him keep everything over and beyond my fifty, maybe sixty thousand, I'm sure he'd agree.

            So I guess it's time for me to run my ass over to Preston Tower.  I'm sure I can get some help there.

_To be continued…………………………_


	3. Chapter 3

James Cameron and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned (or any other) copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons (either real or fictional) is unintended.

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            It'd been a month since I'd been outside Preston Tower, but I guess the twenty I gave the doorman back then was enough to make a lasting impression.  He gives me a nod of recognition as I walk up.

            "I'm here to see Set," I tell him.

            "Fine, go on up."

            "Fine?" I asked, suddenly wondering why everyone in town had always been so impressed with this place's security.  "I can just walk on in?"

            "He's been expecting you," the doorman grumbles.

            "Huh?"  I'm generally a pretty with it kinda guy, but that definitely catches me off guard.

            "For about a week now," the sentry clarifies.  "Said you'd be by eventually."

            "Oh."  I don't really know what else to say, so I stick with that appropriately noncommittal answer and walk on in.  The doorman follows a step behind and lets me into the elevator.

            "I trust you know the way."

            "21F," I answer absently as the elevator doors close.  The interior of the elevator catches my eye – it's one of those intricate metallic patterns that supposedly help alleviate claustrophobia.  The last time I was here – with Max – I wasn't really into thinking too much about my surroundings.  Max got me thinking about Manticore and the things they did to me.  I guess she'll never really understand what it was like.  She was actually one of the lucky ones – she was in a Special Ops unit.  The powers that be – or were – at Manticore had taken a great interest in the social development of their creations.  The ones that showed the greatest affinity for their peers by the age of fourteen months were assigned to group operations.  The rest of us, the ones like Set and me, we were relatively isolated by comparison.  We were taught that relationships of any kind were a distraction from our duty.  In terms of the training it made sense – I was an infiltration and elimination specialist.  _Infiltration and elimination specialist._  It's amazing how well they were able to find a seemingly benign way of saying 'assassin.'

            The more I think about it, the more obvious it is that I shouldn't be so hard on myself for the screw-ups I've blundered into in my short life.  People are primarily the products of their environment, and it's not like I was ever expected to be anything more than a killer.  It's no wonder I can't seem to get along with anyone.  _Especially Max._  Okay, that thought was a little weird.  I really should keep my head in the game, and thinking about Max and rationalizing my past mistakes isn't going to help me right now.  I have to admit all the bad things I've done.  I have to fix them.  That's why I'm here.

            The elevator doors open and I walk down the hall, tapping lightly on Set's door.  There's a click of the lock and the door opens wide, bringing me face to face with Set.

            "Come in," he says evenly as he turns on a heel and walks into his makeshift gym.  Just when I start feeling sorry for myself and my stunted emotional development, I get reminded of Set.  Now he's a real piece of work.  At least I can fake being friendly – it was a necessary part of my training.  As a slinger, Set was taught to avoid interpersonal encounters at all costs.  He has the social skills of a rabid, foaming squirrel.  "So what brings you here, Alec?"

            "You tell me," I answer quickly.  "The doorman said you've been expecting me."  Set didn't bother to answer.  He just turned his gaze on me and locked himself into a stare-down.  Everything was a contest for him, every conversation and encounter a test of one's will and mettle.  With most anyone else I would have risen to the challenge and partaken in a contest of wills.  Right now, though, I don't have the time.  I'm on a pretty tight schedule.  "Fine," I relent, shifting my eyes away slightly without turning my head.  That's about the most concession  he's gonna get right now… it'd better be enough.  "I need some help."

            "So why'd you come _here_?"

            "Because I figured you might be able to help me?" I answer sarcastically.  He shrugs at my answer, and I can only wonder if he ever really figured out the concept of sarcasm.  I can't imagine it would have been anywhere in his curriculum.

            "I'm busy tonight," he says.

            "Doing what?"  I've been dying to find out how he pays for this place… maybe he'll clue me in.

            "I'm going to a meeting."

            "Okay."  I know most people would probably ask who he's meeting, or at least when or where the meeting will be, but there's really no point.  If Set wanted me to know that stuff, he would have told me already.  I guess I won't be getting any help here.

            "What do you need?" he asked unexpectedly, making me wonder if he was making some kind of concerted effort to be sociable.

            "Most of all, I guess I need cash," I say.  "Not that I'm asking for handouts or anything.  There's this guy I know who always has some cash on hand.  I was gonna break into his place and take it."

            "And you need my help?" Set asked dubiously.  "Doesn't sound like anything you can't handle on your own."

            "He's got guards," I tell him.  "Well armed guards, and a kick-ass security system."

            "So?"  The way he's looking at me makes me feel embarrassed for some reason.  It's like a reproachful father looking at a son who doesn't believe he can handle that first day of school.

            "So there's no way I can just slip in and slip out again without getting caught," I explain.  "I need someone else to watch my six and help me get around the security."

            "Why?" he asks simply.  It's amazing that he just doesn't seem to get it.

            "I just don't think I can do it alone."

            "You're a transgenic," he says, as if that should allay any of my concerns.

            "But there's only one of me," I say needlessly.  "This is a two man job."

            "Doesn't sound like it to me," he replies.  "From what little you've said, I think I could do it."

            "Oh, sure, if I just waltz in and gun down the guards," I respond.  "Yeah, it'd be no problem then.  Then I'd just have to gather up the money I need and get out before the cops show up."

            "Uh-huh," Set agreed, not catching the sarcasm in my words.

            "I was only joking," I try to explain.  "I can't do it like that."

            "Why not?" he asks, seeming genuinely confused as to why that isn't an option.

            "Because I can't."

            "The guy's a criminal, right?"

            "Why do you ask?"

            "Because if some guy has lots of armed guards, a state of the art security system, and enough cash lying around to attract your attention, I'm willing to bet his business interests aren't exactly all legitimate."  If I didn't know any better, I would almost guess that Set's trying to be funny.  "So why not just go in and take them all down and make off with the cash?"

            "Because I can't do that," I answered.

            "Why not?"  God, this conversation is really starting to grate on my nerves.

            "Because I can't do that," I protested.

            "I thought you were trained for that kind of job," he says suspiciously.  "Why can't you do it now?"

            "I'm capable of doing it," I answered quickly.  "Don't get me wrong, it's not impossible for me to do it.  It's just not something I should do."

            "Whatever," he says with a dismissing wave.  He doesn't seem either able or willing to understand what I'm trying to say.  "If you just wanted my help, sorry… I'm just not available tonight.  If you want some weapons, though, you're welcome to borrow anything I have in the back room."

            "Weapons?"

            "Jesus, Alec, what's wrong with you?" Set asks.  "Weapons.  Pistols.  Sub-machineguns.  Grenades.  Knives.  You do remember learning how to use a wide array of weapons, don't you?"

            "Of course."

            "Then take what you need and go do what you need to do," he says.  "I don't know what it is you're up to, or why it is you're up to it, but if it's worth doing, then do it.  What, are you getting some strange kind of conscience or something?"

            "Huh?"

            "A conscience," he repeated.  "You don't need one, you know.  If it makes you feel better, just keep telling yourself that this guy is a criminal.  Take him out and use his assets to do something good.  Or take the assets and use them to be knee-deep in hookers and gin for the next month.  Whatever.  Either way, just don't lose sight of the big picture."

            "And what's the big picture?"

            "You're not a normal," Set says.  "I know you've been spending a lot of time around Max, and I know she has her own beliefs.  I also know she wouldn't like you doing what I'm telling you to do.  But she wasn't there for almost twenty years, Alec.  She's become too much a part of this world.  She doesn't understand what it is to be a product of Manticore.  The world's rules don't apply to us."

            "Yes they do," I protested, even though a big part of what he was saying made sense.  It was sorta like the Pygmies in the South American rain forest.  They were a primitive people with their own way of life, a culture that was completely incompatible with twenty-first century Western society.  If someone took a Pygmy out of the rain forest and plopped him down in New York City, would anyone expect the Pygmy to just blend in perfectly?  Of course not.  Maybe Set is right – maybe the rules of this world don't apply to us any more than they would apply to that Pygmy.  "Well, maybe you're right," I relent.  Set's right – Sergei Dragonov _is_ a criminal.  The world won't miss him, and it would be nice to use his ill-gotten gains for something positive.  I have a chance to do a lot of good – I can remove a criminal from Seattle's streets while at the same time using his money to help someone that was hurt by the program that created me.  I think it's what some people would call karmic balance.

            "So what's it gonna be?" Set asked.

            "Let's go look at the weapons."

_To be continued…………………………_


	4. Chapter 4

James Cameron and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned (or any other) copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons (either real or fictional) is unintended.

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**Author's Note:** Just a quick note to the reader.  While writing this and getting to know Alec a little more, I've found he isn't really a very PG-13 person.  As a result, I've upgraded the rating to R.  I figure it's better to change the rating and warn people than have anyone read this chapter and then complain that the content was offensive.  So don't bother with any complaints about content, because you've been warned.  If you find it offensive, it's your own fault for reading it.  Thank you, drive through.  :)

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            The use of force is an interesting thing, a concept that's preoccupied some of the greatest philosophers of all time, whether said philosophers were soldiers, politicians, priests, or the neighborhood wino.  I hate getting philosophical… usually my interest in philosophy begins and ends with some kind of vaguely recognizable line by Locke or Decartes… anything that sounds enlightened enough to help me get laid with some random bar girl.  Right now, though, I'm faced with a genuine philosophical quandary, and it's inextricably tied to the use of force.

            Given the situation, I guess Machiavelli should be my guide.  When I get back to Terminal City later, will I be able to accept the things that I'm about to do?  In short, will I be able to say that the ends justified the means?  Maybe that's the wrong question.  Maybe I should be asking myself if it's ethically reasonable to accept Machiavelli's basic axiom as a moral touchstone.  After all, how many evil acts have been committed just because of the belief that such behavior would be vindicated by the beneficial result?  God, I really need a drink.

            Maybe I'm totally wasting my time even thinking about all of this.  Seriously, if I get the money to fix up Ryan, isn't that a good thing?  Of course it is.  Now, to get the money, I may have to kill a few men.  Not just ordinary citizens, though.  These guys are the scum of the Earth, most of whom will have beaten, tortured, or even killed in order to get their hands on the cash I'm planning to use for something worthwhile, even noble.  You know, maybe my Manticore training is clouding my judgment, but that _does_ seem perfectly reasonable.  Why am I even wasting my time thinking about this crap?

            Okay, so in this situation, I think the ends certainly justify the means.  That just leaves me with the basic question of whether it's morally acceptable to make any kind of decision based on those terms.  To that I only have this to say – who gives a rat's ass?  Ryan needs help, and I can give it to him.  So what if some repugnant gangsters get hurt or killed in the process?  I think I have a moral responsibility to do what needs to be done.

            That just leaves me with the question of the use of force.  How much, exactly, is too much?  After all, if I just go in there with guns blazing, I doubt Dragonov and his boys would stand much of a chance.  But if I'm far sneakier, if I just try to get in and get back out without anyone knowing, I could probably pull this off without anyone ever finding out until it was too late.  I'd be able to take ill-gotten gains and use them for something positive, all without sinking to the level of my foes.  _What the hell is that?!_ a voice in the back of my head asks.  I know that voice well – it's the one that always questions my sanity every time I decide to play the game of life according to Max's rules.

            It really pisses me off when she gets judgmental.  In fact, the only thing that pisses me off more is when her Mr. Man, Logan the All-Knowing Eyes Only, dares to start questioning my decisions.  Like when he called me a happy-go-lucky sociopath…   What a self-righteous asshole.

            This is really a no-brainer.  If I go in there all careful-like, and I make it to Sergei's office and then get discovered, I'll be pinned inside the building with no convenient way out.  At the very least, I'll likely get shot once or twice.  At the worst – well, the owner of Crash would have to find someone else to drink enough to send his kids through college.  On the other hand, if I go in there with the meticulous efficiency of a Special Ops team looking to secure a target, it'll almost certainly mean killing everyone in the place, but leaving me perfectly intact.  So exactly where is the downside to that second alternative?

            Okay, so I'll take Set's advice and just take everyone out, then make off with what I need.  How tough could that possibly be?

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            I distinctly remember one of the Manticore soldiers that used to be around the Gillette facility when I was a kid.  He was a guy named Mick Sullivan, the kind of guy that kids always seem to gravitate to.  He was a grown-up, but he had the kind of youthful enthusiasm that always made me smile.  At least when Lydecker wasn't there to chastise me for it.  He used to have this carefree attitude about everything.  In fact, one of his favorite phrases was, "What's the worst that possibly happen?"  Nothing seemed to bother him.  Then he had the misfortune of being sent on a training mission in New Zealand.  He was in a helicopter that ditched in the ocean, and one of the survivors reported that while Sullivan had been one of the lucky three people to survive the crash, he had only been in the water for maybe ten minutes before he was eaten alive by a shark.

            So what does this have to do with anything?  See, the thing is, I can just imagine Mick Sullivan treading water while he looked around for a life vest or something else he could use to stay afloat.  The image is clear as day – there he is, his ever-present, devil-may-care grin giving hope to the other two survivors as he looks at them and says something like, "Hey, don't hassle it guys.  We survived.  What's the worst that could possibly happen?"  Then a shark swims up and eats him.

            So now here I am, looking through a pair of binoculars at the oh-so-comfy warehouse that Sergei uses as his workplace.  There are two guards by the door, neither of them trying too hard to conceal their weapons, and I know there are several more just like them right inside.  And here I am, within throwing distance, knowing that I'm about to rush headlong into a battle in which I'll be outnumbered and outgunned, and all I can think is, _What's the worse that can possibly happen?_  It makes me smile.

            In the whole scheme of things, though, this shouldn't be too hard.  Set was certainly right about that.  So I put down the binoculars and replace them in my hand with the .38 automatic.  I screw on the silencer as I make my way across the roof, and I clear my head as I walk down some heavy iron stairs.  Within a couple of minutes I'm walking out onto the sidewalk directly across the street from Dragonov's place.  I'm wearing a ratty old hooded windbreaker, and I make sure I pull up the hood a little more as I put a slight stagger into my gait.  Seeming like a dirty, disoriented squatter should send the signal that I'm one of Seattle's throng of drug addicts.  None of them would be a threat to either of those two guards, and as long as they see me that way, I should be able to get close.

            "Hey you, take off," one of them growls as I get within twenty feet.  Guess they're being more careful than I would have given them credit for.  Kudos to them… not that it'll make any difference in the end.

            "Huh?" I respond wearily continuing to hide my face as I gaze around me, as if I'm searching for the source of an unidentified, disembodied voice.

            "Goddamn junkies," the second guard mutters under his breath, my genetically modified ears allowing me to hear a comment that wasn't meant to be heard.  Seems at least one of them is buying my act.

            "I said, take off," the first guy repeats.  "We don't want your kind around here."

            "Really?" I ask as I produce the .38 in my hand.  The guards have just enough time to register surprise on their faces before I put a bullet directly in the center of their foreheads.  I catch each of them before they hit the ground, and I pull their bodies about fifteen feet down the street, lying them right up against a parked car.  Anyone walking around will see them right away, but no one in a car will know they're there unless they get out to take a look.  And since the only people in this neighborhood at this time of night will likely stay within the safety of their vehicles, I should have enough time to get the job done.

            I check each of their weapons before getting back to work.  Both of them are using H&K MP-5's.  Very convenient.  So I take one of the weapons and the clip from the second.  To quote one of my favorite movies, _Now I have a machinegun.  Ho-ho-ho._  Of course, if you want to get technical, an MP-5 is a sub-machinegun, but that's really not at issue right now.  Thinking about irrelevant details like that sorta makes this situation far less cool.

            Within seconds I'm back at the front door.  While neither of the guards knew me, it's more than likely that at least one of the armed men I know are inside would be able to identify me later.  And that's the reason for the handy-dandy black ski mask I brought along.  Yep, the dependable criminal accessory that has stood the test of time.  I think anyone who's interested in partaking in some illicit nocturnal activities should invest the requisite five bucks on one of these things.  Not only are they functional as all get-out, they also look sharp.  Now if only the cheap-ass material wasn't so itchy…

            _Okay Alec, enough wasting time,_ I tell myself._  Get the job done._  I open the door and immediately come face to face with another guard.  The silenced .38 in my left hand fires twice, two muffled coughs sending the guy to the floor in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.  I notice that he's also got an MP-5, and part of me would love to stop and take the magazine out of the weapon so that I'd have more ammo just in case anything goes wrong.  Truth is, though, that I just don't have time.  I have to get to Sergei's office before he realizes anything is wrong.  The door to his office is thick steel, specially shipped in from a bomb shelter some rich guy in Boca Raton built back during the Cuban Missile Crisis.  The door might be old, but it'll certainly take anything I can throw at it.  Maybe I should have borrowed Set's missile launcher after all.

            My thoughts are interrupted as another guard pokes his head around a corner in front of me.  "Hey Tony, you okay?" the guy asks.  Another muffled cough from the .38 and I ensure that the only way the guy'll get an answer is if there's an afterlife.  _Four down, God knows how many to go._

            It's times like this that I wouldn't trade being a transgenic for the world.  I'm sidestepping cautiously along a wall, listening for the slightest sound that might betray another sentry's position.  For a normal, this would be a slow, cautious process.  I can move along several times faster, though.  My footfalls are virtually silent even to my sense of hearing, and I know that even moving along as quickly as I am, if I get surprised by stumbling upon another guard, I'll almost certainly react more quickly than he will.  Lydecker was one major league son of a bitch, but he definitely knew his job.  I hate to sound arrogant or anything, but I'm _so_ cool.

            _Okay, one more hallway,_ I realize as I round the last corner.  Then, there in front of me is Sergei Dragonov's office.  Good news – I've been lucky enough to get this far without any problems.  Bad news – seems my luck just ran out.  There's a guy at the end of the hallway, staring at me down the barrel of an assault rifle.  It only takes a split second to recognize him as Sasha Pushkin, Sergei's chief enforcer.  Once again I'm thankful I'm a transgenic.  There's no way a normal would have been able to dive for cover like I just did.

            "Whoever you are, you're dead man," I hear Sergei call out in his thick Russian accent.  Great, seems I had the bad luck to show up while the boss is still around.  I might have had a chance to talk Sasha down if Sergei wasn't here, but now he's gonna fight to the death.  Too bad, really.  I always did like Sasha…

            I take a grenade from my pocket, pull the pin, and lob it down the hallway.  I hear Sasha predictably dive for cover back in the office, and then the grenade explodes.  I can only wonder how much of a jackass he feels like when he realizes that it was just a smoke grenade.  As if I'd throw live grenades around in here.  I know there's all kinds of ammunition in Sergei's office.  The last thing I need is to inadvertently blow something up and start a fire.  Yeah, that would be perfect – burn up the money I've already worked so hard for.

            I can only hope the smoke will give me enough cover as I make a mad dash down the hall, hoping to reach Sergei's office before they can close the door.  As I'm running I can vaguely see the door being pulled closed, and I know it's gonna be a close call.  Out of pure instinct, and maybe a slight bit of desperation, I stick out my right hand at the last instant, catching the MP-5 in the door, preventing them from closing it all the way.  Seeing no other reasonable alternatives at the time, I pull the trigger, emptying the clip and causing someone inside to yell out in pain.  I can't believe I actually caught someone with a ricochet.  Am I a lucky bastard or what?

            There's a sudden drop-off in the strength pulling the door closed, and I seize upon the opportunity, letting go of the emptied MP-5 and grabbing onto the frame of the door.  One strong yank is all it takes, and the door opens wide, bringing me face to face with Sergei Dragonov.  He's blocking my view of the room behind him, and not wanting to take any chances, I quickly fire the .38 again, putting a round through each of his kneecaps.  He crumples to the floor in pain as he screams like a little girl, and I get a chance to settle my gaze on Pushkin.  It's a good thing I got my view cleared when I did, because he's raising his M-20 again.

            The Manticore training kicks in again, and I get my shot off first, putting a bullet into his skull right over his left eye.  I must be getting rusty – there's no way I should have been at all off-center at this range.  Sasha doesn't die right away; he gets this faraway look in his eyes, like he realizes something is really wrong but he can't quite place it, and then he starts to gurgle and drool.  It's really inhuman to let him suffer like this, and part of me wishes I could just put another bullet in his head and put him out of his misery; unfortunately, though, I could still get surprised by any number of gunmen.  There's been enough automatic gunfire in here to alert any guard in the building and call in every cop within a half-mile radius.  I can't waste any ammunition, and the fact is that Sasha's been neutralized.  He'll probably just linger for a couple more minutes before his brain figures out that it should be dead.

            Sergei's looking up at me now, realizing that I'm not someone to trifle with.  Dollars to donuts, though, he's gonna try to stall me until the rest of his goons can get here to save his ass.  Too bad for him I already know where his safe is.  That means we get to skip the interrogation stage and go straight to ripping him off.  I glare at him for a second, letting him know that I won't hesitate to kill him if he gets at all uppity.  Then I tear down a painting of the Winter Palace and look at the safe behind it.  He gasps slightly, betraying his surprise at my knowing exactly where to look.  He's probably gonna have all of his men killed tomorrow, just in case they had a hand in what he's likely concluded is an inside job.

            I quickly put the .38 in my waistband, marveling at how uncomfortable it is given the fact that the silencer has made the barrel a bit longer than normal.  And that's not to mention it's a little bit warmer than I would like.  I'm gonna have to find someone to help me soothe that later…

            So I go to work on the combination, getting the safe open within seconds.  Sergei gasps again, and then I hear some approaching footsteps from outside.  "You come in here I kill your boss," I snarl, doing my best to change the pitch of my voice and throwing in my best Russian accent for good measure.  It's too bad I'm gonna be holed up in Terminal City for awhile; I'd love to be out on the streets when Sergei goes after every enemy he has as he tries to figure out who hired his own people to hit him.  The footsteps outside come to an immediate halt, and Sergei turns to the last refuge of all beaten men – empty threats.

            "You're dead man," he spits at me, obviously fighting to control the pain that's shooting through his body.  He's not doing a very convincing job, by the way.  "We'll find you.  We'll kill you."

            I don't bother to answer him.  Instead I turn slightly, until I can barely see him out of the corner of my eye, and I fire a shot that leaves a bullet embedded in the wall about half an inch to the right of his head.  I'll bet he even heard the round whiz right past his ear.  That little display shut him up better than any lame-ass threat I could have come up with, and once again I'm amazed at how cool I am.

            Almost as cool as me, though, is the view inside Dragonov's safe.  Stacks and stacks of hundred-dollar bills.  Marvelous.  My quick guess – eighty grand.  Not really anywhere near as much as I'd hoped, but when you have that much money in your hands, it's hard to wish that you had even a little bit more.  Assuming I get out of here okay, I'll not only be able to hook up Ryan with a good, legitimate surgeon, I'll also be able to put enough away to throw a nice party once that whole fiasco at Terminal City is straightened out.

            I pull out a nice-sized backpack from underneath my black windbreaker, and I throw the money inside.  Now comes the hard part.  "Get up," I say to Sergei.

            "I can't," he protests.  "You shot my knees, you son of a bitch."  Figures he'd come up with a lame excuse like that.

            "Either find a way to live with the pain, or you're dead," I growl as I raise the .38 and take aim.

            "Fine," he spits, struggling to his feet.  He's smarter than he looks.  While he's fighting his way to his feet, I thumb the magazine release on the .38 and slap in a new clip before going out to deal with the rest of Sergei's cronies.

            "We're coming out now," I tell them, continuing my ploy with the accent.  "Anyone tries anything, your boss is dead.  Then I wish you good luck explaining that to his many friends."  The threat should be clear – sure, they might get a good shot at me, but I'll whack their employer at the drop of a hat; and his associates will doubtless look for answers – and payback – when they try to find out what went wrong in here.  "I don't even want to see anyone out there."

            I hear the scuffling feet of his guards giving ground, and for the first time I dare to think this might work out just as well as I'd planned.  I push Sergei ahead of me, and follow carefully, gazing ahead through the heavy smoke that still fills the hallway.  It's a good thing the smoke's still here, too.  If Sergei's niece, Katrina, is anywhere in the building, I'll be in real trouble.  She's one hell of a shot, and to be perfectly frank, she's simply way too hot to simply waste by killing.

            Sergei hobbles along slowly, leaning heavily on the wall for support, and I begin to hear the sound of police sirens through the building's not so thick walls.  Seems it's time to go.  "Das vedanya, asshole," I whisper as I point the gun down at Sergei's feet and pull the trigger again.  The third shot obliterates his heel, doubtlessly leaving him a cripple for the rest of his life.  Not that it'll really matter, though.  He's a very rich man, even after I ripped him off.  He'll make out far better than Ryan ever did.

            His scream of pain is enough to give me the opening I need.  I hear the quickly approaching footsteps of his guards, and I leap up onto a beam above me, then raise myself up onto a catwalk.  One quick sprint later, I'm outside on the streets of Seattle.  Mission accomplished.

            Part of me wonders for a few seconds what Max would say if she found out what I just did, but then that smooth, soothing voice in the back of my head comforts me.  _Don't worry, Alec,_ it tells me.  _Max'll never know._

_To be continued…………………………_


	5. Chapter 5

James Cameron and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned (or any other) copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons (either real or fictional) is unintended.

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            Riding along the streets of Seattle at night has always been strangely soothing.  I don't really know whether it's the city itself, or just the fact that Seattle is the first place I've been where I've been free.  And this ride is special, because I honestly don't think I was ever really free until tonight.

            Manticore sent me out countless times to kill, the consequences be damned.  Ryan wasn't the first person who demonstrated to me the darker side of my work.  Hell, I knew all about that before I ever left Gillette.  But Ryan gave me the wonderful opportunity to make up for a past mistake, to put right what once went wrong.  Ironically enough, it was largely my Manticore training, the very same Manticore training that caused the situation in the first place, that allowed me to make my penance.

            Earlier tonight, I used my genetic enhancements and my training for something I felt was worthwhile.  I don't think I've ever done that before.  No matter what I did, at whatever point in my life, there was always somebody I was serving, from my masters in Manticore to Max.  I think what I did tonight is the kind of thing Max would have done, and that's a surprisingly soothing thought.

            _Yes, maybe that's the kind of thing Max would have done, but that was most certainly **not** the way she would have done it,_ a gnawing voice whispers to me from the back of my mind.  My conscience… what an unnecessary irritant.  At the end of the day (or night, as the case may be), the fact is that I've atoned.  I've done what I needed to do to fix a nice guy who didn't deserve the fate that I once visited upon him.  What does it matter how I accomplished the task?

            The end justifies the means – there's just no room in this world for the kind of sanctimonious bullshit that Max is always peddling.  She'll never get me to buy into her belief that it doesn't matter how noble the result is if you compromise your beliefs getting there.  Nope, that doesn't make any sense.  Or maybe it's just that she and I have different beliefs.  She thinks it's wrong to kill, but I really don't see much of a problem with it.  As long as I don't start drawing my barcode on the back of people's necks before hunting them down and pulling their teeth out as a sacrifice to my angry goddess, I should be just fine.  It's a rough world, and only the strong can thrive.  I plan to be one of the strong.

            The faintest streaks of gray are starting to spread across the pre-dawn sky by the time I get to Ryan's place.  I drop the large duffel bag at his door and knock loudly, then I dash across the street, keeping a sharp eye out to make sure he's the one that actually gets the money.  It takes a couple of minutes before he opens the door, leaning heavily on a cane.  I guess the leg hurts lots more when he first gets up in the morning.  He opens the bag and even from my spot this far away I can see his eyes go wide.  Then he reads the letter, the one I memorized even as I wrote it.

_Ryan,_

_This bag holds forty grand, all the money necessary to get the operation you need to get yourself fixed up.  Go to the new St. Jude's Hospital later on at 10 a.m.  Ask for Dr. Khorsandi.  He's a talented specialist, and he'll do the operation.  He already has the additional ten grand you need – delivered to him as a down payment and gesture of goodwill to move you up on his schedule.  Good luck getting your life back._

_                                                                                    Thanks, _

_                                                                                    A Fellow Soldier_

            I think it's strange that I feel as good as I do right now.  Then again, though, I don't think I've ever done anything like this before.  It's always been about me.  But this time I forgot about all that selfish shit and did something for someone else for a change.  Maybe this feeling is the reason that people like Logan are always helping other people, even when they don't know them.  You know, maybe I'll try this again sometime… maybe I'll get another chance to feel like this.  After all, I have the skills and abilities to make a real difference.  Yeah, I think maybe I'll do just that.  And so what if Max doesn't like my methods?  The end definitely justifies the means.  She'll see.

Fin


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